


need special handling

by belovedmuerto



Series: depeche mode inspired stories [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: DM inspired, Depeche Mode fics, M/M, Precious, a little bit more anatomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been flirting for weeks. Too bad he's really not very obvious about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	need special handling

**Author's Note:**

> OK, and here's the sequel to "precious and fragile things" that I promised. It's not as smutty as I thought it would be though. Sorry.
> 
> This is for the DM fics thing that myself and theplatonicnonyeah are doing. This plus the other part make up #2 together for me. I guess. Is that cheating? I don't even know.
> 
> (Apologies in advance to red_adam for my constant over-usage of parentheses. See, I'm even doing it in notes, now!) ;-)
> 
> (Also, I've got several stories finished at this point, and alas, AO3 won't let me future-date things, so I'm just going to get stuff posted.)

Sherlock glances up to the ceiling of the kitchen, listening to the rustles and shuffles of John moving around upstairs, getting ready for bed.

It has been a quiet couple of weeks in the flat; things have been subdued. If Sherlock were the fanciful sort, he’d think about how the lovely March weather is a stark contrast to the way things feel inside 221B Baker Street.

First it had been that disastrous date with Sarah that John had gone on ( _and whose fault is that, Sherlock? Obviously he’s not as interested as you thought, obviously you need to back off, obviously obviously_ obviously), and that was closely followed up with Sarah insisting that she didn’t want to date a madman with a madder flatmate and they’d just be colleagues and friends, thanks.

Sherlock had quietly rejoiced, and even more quietly wondered if this changed anything at all between them. He’d thought he’d made his intentions known.

Apparently not.

Then had come the call from John’s alcoholic sister, and John had disappeared for days on end taking care of her, trying to get her sober(ish) again.

That hadn’t gone very well either.

For the first time, Sherlock is seeing John in a low mood. He’s been sulking about the flat for days, and it’s starting to worry Sherlock. It’s also affecting his concentration.

The kettle clicks off, and Sherlock prepares the steaming mug of tea before padding softly upstairs to John’s room. The door is ajar, and the light next to the bed is on. With a gentle knock, Sherlock pushes open the door.

John looks up at him from the magazine he’s reading. Or staring at, anyway; Sherlock isn’t sure John had been actually reading it. Sherlock crosses the room and puts the mug down on the bedside table and offers John a smile that comes out much closer to a grimace.

 _I’m rubbish at this._

“I’m...”

John looks from him to the tea and back again.

“I made you tea.”

John almost smiles. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Yes. Well.” Sherlock leaves again, fleeing back downstairs to his experiment.

**

John watches Sherlock leave his room and picks up the steaming mug of tea.

 _Sherlock made me tea._

He lets that sink in for a bit.

 _Sherlock made me tea._

It’s never happened before. Generally, Sherlock demands what almost amounts to servitude from John. But not lately. Ever since that weird night in the kitchen, Sherlock has been almost accommodating. John has seen a new side to his flatmate. Not so new or different as to be alarming, but different nonetheless.

Right around the same time as the small explosion downstairs, it hits John that Sherlock has been, for weeks now, flirting with him.

 _Oh. Bugger._

**

Sherlock is standing next to the sink when John skids into the room. He is staring at his shirt. Which is in the sink.

It's on fire.

 _That was unexpected._ He'd really liked that shirt, actually. It had felt nice against his skin, and it had flattered him. (He likes the way John always looks at him when he wears it. Wore it. _Bugger._ ) He'll have to talk to Mycroft about that; it's one of the ones that had appeared after the last time Mycroft had him kidnapped and delivered to the tailors. Hopefully the same material is still available.

Sherlock wonders if he can get new pyjamas out of the ordeal of dealing with Mycroft as well.

His shirt burns quickly, brightly. If he'd known this was going to happen, he wouldn't have worn it, although it's interesting to note the differences in how the buttons are melting between the cuffs and the placket.

John, he knows, is still staring, from him, to the shirt, to the matching scorch marks on the ceiling and the table. His expression is caught somewhere between horror and fascination and laughter. He looks _edible_.

Sherlock turns slightly to look at his flatmate and watches dispassionately as John clicks over to doctor-mode.

“Are you all right?” John asks, crowding in front of Sherlock and manhandling him so that he's facing the doctor.

Sherlock lets him.

John gives him a quick once over. “Are you burnt? Are you hurt? What the fuck was that?”

Sherlock shakes his head, memorizes the feel of John's hands against his skin.

“Were you wearing the goggles, Sherlock, or were you using them to keep your fringe out of your eyes?” John plucks the goggles off Sherlock's head, tosses them on the table, and turns him to face the light over it, looking into his eyes to make sure they're clear and free of debris.

“I was wearing them,” Sherlock replies, his voice betraying him with its softness. He goes where John leads.

“Why is your shirt on fire?” John throws a glance at the still burning silk in the sink. It's starting to smell terrible. His hands are on Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock doesn't want to move, ever.

“I'm not entirely sure how that happened,” Sherlock whispers.

John looks at him again. “You're not burned anywhere? You're sure?”

Sherlock nods, forces himself to step back. “I'm fine, John.”

“Right,” John agrees. He takes a small step back, against the table, and Sherlock has to look away, because he'd like to follow John, grab him, kiss him and never stop. And he doesn't think John wants that.

He watches the shirt burning, and for a fanciful moment imagines it's his heart.

But John isn't leaving. He's standing at the table; Sherlock can feel his stare like a caress against the bare skin of his back. He fights against the rising tide of words, of vitriol; he doesn't want to accuse or destroy whatever fragile thing there is between them.

If they're only ever to be friends, if John doesn't want him the way Sherlock wants John, he'll learn to live with that. He's well aware that the chances of him ever finding another flatmate he gets on with so well are slim to nil, and one who helps him in The Work as well even less likely.

 _It's fine. Just like John said, it's all fine._

 _He was hitting on you at Angelo's._

 _He wasn't. He's not interested._

 _He was._

 _I'm rubbish at this._

John still hasn't left the kitchen. Sherlock has a death grip on the edge of the worktop now, staring as hard as he can at the remnants of his shirt, watching the last embers slowly die.

He doesn't hear John step closer to him, doesn't realize he's there until he feels John's breath against his shoulder.

 _John is the perfect height._

“May I?” John breathes against his right scapula. It's barely a whisper.

John has never sounded like this. Sherlock doesn't have the words to describe it, but it makes something low in his abdomen clench almost painfully.

He jerks a nod in reply, tries to regulate his breathing, which seems to have gone ragged without his consent.

 _Have to have discussion with sympathetic nervous system re: breath patterns._

Johns fingers slide into his hair, and Sherlock's head drops back to give him better access.

A soft “oh,” escapes him. He adds his vocal chords to the list of bodily organs and functions that are mutinying against his control.

John palpates his head, cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, massages gently along the sutures of his cranial bones as he murmurs their names: “Occipital bone, lamboidal suture, temporal bone, squamous suture, parietal bone, coronal suture, frontal bone, sphenoid bone.”

John's wondrous fingers stop at his temples, massaging gently.

 _Knees. Knees also on that list. He knows the sutures of the cranium. Of course he does, he's a doctor._

“Ethmoid, John,” he murmurs.

“I'm not poking you in the eye, Sherlock.” John gently rights Sherlock's head, and his hands trail down Sherlock's neck, slowly, slowly, slowly.

Sherlock shudders.

John trails his hands down, still slow as if he intends to make this— whatever it is— last as long as possible, as long as Sherlock will let him continue ( _forever, John. Forever_ ); those competent, slightly roughened doctor's hands come to rest on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock can feel the heat of him, a long line against his back.

There are— _oh god_ — John's lips are against his neck, pressing a kiss to the top of his spine. John's lips are soft and they are perfect. Each press of lips to skin sends him further into almost painful sensitivity; each feels like a jolt of electricity straight across his nerves.

“C1,” John murmurs. He continues, kissing each of Sherlock's vertebrae, naming them in turn. When he's no longer standing on his toes to reach, John's hands leave his shoulders, and when he reaches the lumbar vertebrae, his hands alight against Sherlock's hips as he crouches to continue kissing his way down Sherlock's back.

Sherlock stands as still as he is able. The trembling he can't seem to do anything about. Mutinous sympathetic nervous system.

John stops at his sacrum, breathes “sacred” against it, and uses his hands for balance as he stands again, slithering almost against Sherlock's back, exhaling along his spine as he rises.

Sherlock gives up on hiding the way this is affecting him and instead tries to remember how to breathe, as his body no longer seems willing to do it without his input.

He does have the presence of mind to notice that John is also breathing heavily, and he's confused, until John's hands move again, fitting over his hips, just above the waist of his trousers, and he murmurs, “Iliac crest.”

There's a long pause, while John's hands grip his hips and John takes deep breaths behind him. Sherlock adjusts his hold on the worktop, because what he really wants to do is push back against John, and he's not sure if he should or not.

John's forehead drops against his spine, right between his shoulder blades. Sherlock can't stop the gasp that escapes him.

“Jesus, Sherlock, do you know what you do to me?” John whispers, so low Sherlock barely hears him.

“No,” Sherlock tries to respond, because he doesn't. He's been trying to figure just that out for weeks now. But his voice doesn't work, blasted mutinous vocal chords, so he clears his throat and tries again, “No.”

He's able to make his voice work as far as a whisper the second time.

John chuckles; he's got the strangest sense of humor Sherlock has ever come across, and he loves it.

“You've wrecked me,” John murmurs.

“Likewise.” Sherlock tentatively, hesitantly leans back until there's a long line of contact between them, John's soft well-worn t-shirt against his back, John's erection pressed into the top of his thigh.

He doesn't know what comes next.

“I didn't realize,” John says into his spine, voice a little stronger, “until just before you blew up the kitchen. Your flirting is incredibly oblique and esoteric, you know.”

“Oh.”

“You brought me tea.”

“I did.”

“I'm an idiot.”

“It's ok, I like you anyway.” Sherlock is almost giddy with the relief of admitting it. Everything else can wait.

John sighs. “I'd like...”

Sherlock laces his fingers with John's at his hips, draws them around so they're resting on his stomach, and leans a little harder. John is all heat and soft breath against him.

He's quite certain he's never been this aroused in his entire life.

“Like what, John?”

“I'd like you to map the rest of me, if you'd like to.”

Another soft “oh,” escapes him, and John chuckles again. Sherlock feels it against his back and it renews the trembling he'd only just managed to get control over.

“Can I take that as a yes?”

Sherlock can only nod in answer, and follow John as he's led out of the kitchen.

**

Sherlock wakes to the sound of John breathing right next to him.


End file.
